


for every one jesus you get a million zombies

by clandestineClairvoyant



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Necromancer!Dorian, just zombies, really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clandestineClairvoyant/pseuds/clandestineClairvoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt on the kinkmeme! For badass necromancer!Dorian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for every one jesus you get a million zombies

They were on their last legs.

 

“Potion!” Dorian heard Bull scream from across the battlefield, and he felt a hot burn of regret as he reached for his belt and grasped nothing but air.

 

_’Kaffas.’_

 

His last potion had been used on a rather large burn that had been seared into the meat of his shoulder. The ragged remains of his sleeve and the smell of charred meat was all that remained, thankfully, although he supposed the latter might never wash out of the robes. He had gone this long without anything but the most superficial of scars, and he would prefer for it to stay that way, even through the apparent end of the world and ensuing carnage the Inquisitor kept dragging them through.

Unfortunately, this meant Dorian had to look across the battlefield and see Bull being beset upon by countless Venatori, a few brave swordsman managing to dart past the arc of Bull’s axe, and draw thin licks of blood across his sides and arms as he attempted to avoid the worst of the blows with uncharacteristic grace form such a large warrior.

It was cold in Emprise Du Lion; Great gouts of steam billowed up from under Bull’s terrifyingly sharp and sinister looking helmet and off of his shoulders as the Reaver roared in rage, and charged at a particularly large knight with an apparent death wish. There was a clash of steel, and a crunch of bone, and Bull kicked the venatori off of his blade with a dark chuckle, the man’s armor smashed into splinters and gore.

 

There was still a legion of them making their way up the ridge, an ambush of epic proportions, but Dorian _did_ always admire his lovers optimism.

 

Lavellan was up high with Sera, raining chaos and profanity down upon their enemies heads respectively. Their Inquisitor looked furious, her eyes drawn into a sharp-eyed glare reminiscent of a falcon, teeth bared in a snarl. She was relatively unharmed, but while the Inquisitor was a hunter of unparalleled stealth and precision, in a melee she was glass. Sharp and beautiful, but astonishingly fragile. She would barely last a minute in the violence of the grounded battlefield, and it was clearly killing her.

Dorian himself wouldn’t be down here, if he didn’t need proximity to keep his feeble barriers erected for Bull- Malnourished, flickering things as he attempted to reserve his mana that barely diverted blows, and did almost _nothing_ for the heat and flame.

 

_’Apologies,_ amatus.’ He thought grimly and distractedly, as a _fasta canus_ of a venatori made it past both his barrier and Bull’s red haze of fury and reaver abilities with his arse and sanity both intact, and sank his blade right into the qunari’s thigh.

Dorian himself turned in time to catch the downward arc, the backward throw of Bull’s head as he gave a strangled sounding yell and the gristly _schnak_ as the blade met the bone underneath Bull’s brace.

 

Even as Dorian’s heart sank- and he moved to swiftly slam his staff into the idiot who decided to go toe to toe with _him_ , a Pavus, the bladed end sticking in some bit of gristle perhaps half a foot in the mans chest- he saw Bull’s knee slowly start to buckle. The bad one.

 

“Dorian!”

 

He glanced up, and the ice in his chest spread to his limbs, a temporary nervelessness almost tipping his staff from his fingers as he saw the Inquisitor looking like a lion someone had leashed with the tiniest bit of string- Furious, vibrating with barely contained violence, and helpless under the blade the venatori rogue had pricked under the soft and vulnerable arch of her throat.

 

They were only losing more ground as time went on, and Dorian felt every curse he’d ever learned as a Circle student bubbling up in his throat, as he perhaps used a tad too much enthusiasm in crisping the next mage who attempted to step up with him in the lull of battle.

 

Sera was unsure the next he managed to look up, quick back and forth glances that he knew was going to kill him if he didn’t concentrate on the soldiers darting from cover to cover as they came closer.

Her arrow shook slightly as she aimed it from the rogue, to the approaching swordsmen who had the two elves cornered now that the Inquisitor was temporarily subdued, and to the two mages who were layering paralysis spells onto Bull as he shook with the strain and effort it took to keep himself on his ruined knee. His axe dropped with the sound of a gavel.

 

_’This is a grim set of circumstances.’_ He thought glumly, electricity snapping off of his fingers in lavender arches as his own antagonists crept closer. Hired Tevinter mercenaries for the most part he noted, as he stepped carefully backwards, feeling his footing out under the cold crust of snow and ice so as to prevent himself from tripping on tired legs. Although he caught sight of a few familiar faces. 

Apprentices, perhaps. Or maybe former colleagues. Dorian had an excellent memory for faces, and he imprinted these ones onto his mind with a cold calculation that promised future retribution.

There was a reason he was saving one last meagre burn of magic. And it would be something he hoped would make these bastards turn inside out.

 

_“Hold.”_

 

Dorian ceased his retreat the same moment his pursuers did, his breath harsh and grating in his throat as he drew in the daggers of ice that was the air in this frozen wasteland. Sweat was freezing under his robes where the torn and tattered remains failed to cover, and he could already feel the faint numbness that came from biting cold.

 

“So. Dorian. _Pavus._ ” The voice was low, and calculating, and absolutely worst of all, familiar. Dorian finally made out the horses he’d been hearing echoing across the icy rock walls of this crevasse, every time there had been a lull in the sound of swords, and brief punctuations of explosion. It was a giant, black thing that seemed far too magnificent of a steed for it’s thin, predatory rider.

The man was immediately recognizable, even in the dark of his robes and hood. If the gilted seal of his house hadn’t given it away, the calm and clipped speech of his sentence was familiar. Although, Dorian hadn’t often heard it outside of a haze of wine and banality. Generally at a party involving far too many older magisters, and far too few servants with trays of drinks.

 

“Almadaris.” He managed to reign in the sound of his fatigue, straightening his back, and putting one hand on his hip in a careless gesture. Even as the sounds of Bull off to his right grew more pained and labored, he kept his eyes on the threat in front of him.

And a threat he most certainly _was_.

“Pavus. _Avanna._ ” The man sounded as if he was at a party, completely relaxed despite the carnage and groans of the injured. Dorian half expected someone to draw a curtain for tea to be served, as the man unclipped his staff from his saddle with all of the casualty of a lady drawing her skirt under her chair.

“Imagine my surprise, when I heard that Magister Halwards greatest failure was _here._ In Emprise du Lion.” The man gestured to one of his soldiers who obediently took the great black beasts reigns, allowing the other mage to slide off of it’s back. They seemed obedient, for mercenaries. Probably very well paid.

He was a tall man, if rather thin, with an elegant aquiline nose and eyes that glittered like small gemstones in the shade of his hood. He was one of the few magister’s who had gained their seat through the old method of dueling, setting him apart from the rest of the bloated and complacent politicians that made up the magisterium. An outdated, and rather heavy handed method, but tried and true all the same. He was the first in fifty years to do so, and it had been _spectacular._ Worthy to be the talk of Minrathous for _months_ afterwards.

 

Which is _why_ , when Dorian backtracked the records after half a year of study, and made a connection between Corypheus and this man’s family, thus humiliating the whole line and ostracizing them from most of Minrathous high society, he’d been hoping it wouldn’t come to this.

Biting him in the arse.

 

“Yes, fancy running into you here. Have you met my friends?” Dorian gestured carelessly at the corpses littering the battlefield, a few twitching minutely and staining the gray and muddy snow with rapidly spreading pools of crimson. “Hm. Don’t mind them. I suppose some simply can’t handle a little bit of high spirits.”

 

“Ah yes, not like _you_ Dorian. Do you mind if I call you Dorian?”

 

“Of course not my dear man.” Dorian glanced carelessly down at his robes, affecting a pained look as he played with the singed threads and made a show of straightening himself. “What are we, if not _equals?_ ”

Amladaris teeth flashed in the dark, and Dorian felt a chill at the lack of effect the jibe had on the man. If he thought he’d enrage the man into making n impulsive move, he was mistaken.

“Imagine my surprise,” The man stepped closer, and Dorian didn’t let his tense of muscles be shown as he very pointedly stayed put, the soldiers keeping their respectful distance as their Commander prowled closer.  
“When I learned that our very carefully hidden family ties to a certain ancient magister became the talk of every parlor from here to Orlais? When our certain mutual acquaintance, who is perhaps still bearing a certain _grudge,_ ” Amladaris drew his staff from his back, spinning it carelessly, and letting a faint miasma of darkness wisp from the center stone. “Felt the need to impugn my family honor in such a fashion?”

 

Probably the family of the fool he’d incinerated in the city square to gain his seat. Maker knew a Magister’s widow knew how to hold a grudge.

 

_’Next time I give information to the Inquisition to sell,’_ Dorian thought with a hot surge of irritation towards Cullen’s ham handed _incompetency_ , as well as the Inquistor’s trust in letting the commander handle it rather than a more delicate, perhaps feminine, touch. _’I am going to make sure they are capable of keeping their **mouths shut.’**_

“No matter. Once I have Pavus’ only heir under my thumb, I’m sure all will be forgotten. Perhaps I might garner _two_ magisterium seats, once your father pays whatever ridiculous sum for his faulty progeny.” Another feat that would be a feather in his cap, and Dorian thought it might just do the trick of distracting from the scandal of Corypheus.

 

Dorian kept silent as he thought it over, mind racing, and Almadaris waved a careless hand, the soldiers surging forward. Dorian finally let his brain take over his mouth to get him, as well as his companions and _amatus,_ out of the corner they were backed in. It was a common occurrence.

 

_“Provocatio!”_ He managed to get out, and the foremost soldier stopped uncertainly.

Someone murmured, but Dorian ignored it, his eyes narrowed and focused into the sinister depths of the magister’s hood. Almadaris’ head tilted slightly, as if he’d heard something very fascinating. Or perhaps the indignity of ostracization had finally cracked the man under the stress of his duties, as well as the end of the world. His plan was certainly crazy enough. “ _Provocatio,_ you blight taken bastard. I am still a graduate of the Circle of Minrathous, and I challenge you to a duel.”

 

“You insult me.”

 

“No, Magister Almadaris, _you_ insult me.” Dorian snarled with a sudden fury, and the snow around him started to steam faintly with the force of his ire. One of the soldier stepped back, but he ignored it. “With these paltry tricks, and your stupid, hired, _livestock._ Single combat my dearest colleague, if you’re _man enough._ ”

The first signs of irritation twisted the set of Almadaris’ shoulders. “You,” He started, making a brief short gesture that sent the soldiers stepping respectful back. “Are but a _whelp._ You think you can challenge _me?_ ” The sound of honest laughter filtered out across the snow, but Dorian only had ears for the muffled curses as Sera and Lavellan were dragged from their perch, battered and bearing the signs of struggle; and the deep and labored breath as Bull kept sucking in air through the layers of paralyzing runes scattered around his prostrate body. His heart was hammering double time, but this time it was with anger, rather than fear.

 

How _dare_ he.

 

“Fine.” The man ceased his laughter, and wiped a hand across his face, as if wiping a tear of mirth from his cheek.

Dorian simmered in silence. Almadaris set his staff in front of him, and grinned slowly. “Let’s carry this farce out, then, since you _insist_. And when we’re done, I’m going to collar the Inquisitor, turn that scrappy little _thing_ over to my soldiers to do with what they will, and then we’ll see how playful I’m feeling when I get to the ox, hm?” Dorian let the words settle over him like a net, drawing and _drawing_ on the mana in the air and in the thin veil of the fade, letting the anger serve as an anchor. “To the death, I trust?”

 

There was a moment of stillness after Dorian gave a curt nod. The wind whistled briefly in the silence against the stone, and as soon as it petered out, Almadaris cast.

 

It was haste first, and he moved like quickened silver, edges blurring as he drew his staff down in an arc towards Dorian as fast as any chevalier, suddenly closer than he was previously. He grimaced and blocked it with a quick parry, stepping back solidly. Nothing showy for now; he was too weak. Normally Dorian would be much more agile, an artist on the battlefield. Nothing as mundane and boring as these Ferelden rubes, who seemed to be incapable of anything but standing in one spot and casting like monotonous, walking _runes._ But with such a fresh and agile opponent, he knew keeping on his feet was more important.

Besides, he had an advantage that would keep the concerned look off of the Inquisitors pained face if she knew.

 

When he went out with the Inquisitor, he hobbled himself. This was a fact.

Bull had made a few comments to the effect, but Dorian had simply evaded the question with his usual grace and tact, until Bull took the obvious hint and let him keep to his storm magic. Crackles of lightning and static cages were effective enough in crushing even the most persistent of opponents.

But truly, there was one area where he shined.

It wasn’t taught in Ferelden, or Orlais. In Nevarra they _worshipped_ it, and in Tevinter, it was considered distasteful, if a difficult and tricky school of magic that often times turned on the caster as easily as blood magic.

But Dorian disliked the comparison. It was leagues of difference between the art of drawing the souls of the dead back over the thin caul of existence, and back into their flesh- And the blunted knife of drawing upon demons and spirits to grant you power.

And Dorian was never one to let his power turn around and bite him.

 

“Did you never hear of my specialty, Almadaris?” Dorian asked conversationally, as the two of them traded blows, his own arc of lightning being turned aside by a hastily flashed barrier. It ricocheted away to crash into the cliff, the icy shale and rock crumbling with a tortured groan and clap of noise.

“I could truly care less.” Almadaris returned with uncharacteristic flippancy, his staff whirling and sending out a gout of fire that caused the skin under Dorian’s burned sleeve to twinge in remembered pain. He rolled and slid unbecomingly out of the way, and sprinted to the side to avoid his next sizzle that melted the snow and soddened Dorian’s boots.  
The man was talented, he’d give him that.

But Dorian had taken his measure, and felt in the depths of his should that he was _better._ Had to be.

 

“You should truly care _more._ ”

 

The mercenaries had been completely silent at the show of power from the two mages, gripping the Inquisitor and Sera tightly and keeping close watch on the incoherent Bull. But suddenly there was a surprised murmur, that grew into a surprised scream and hoarse yells of pain and fear.

Almadaris to his credit, didn’t look, simply knit his brow in confusion, and threw another gout of flame, which Dorian avoided with a few panted breaths. His smile was pleased now, feral between the drags of ice cold air and the smell of steaming water, and Almadaris growled at the expression.

 

“After all, a warzone is where I truly excel.”

 

There were more screams, and Almadaris finally turned.

 

It wasn’t a pretty sight, even Dorian had to admit.

The dead were up, freshly killed with blood still leaking sluggishly from cold veins, and their mouths slack with the cold sleep of death. Their eyes were open, glassy, a few pebbled and cracked with frost and the weeping tears of mucous and blood that came from a violent and bloody end.

One gristly apparition clung to a screaming soldier with hands that were blackened and rigid with electrical burns, it’s head sloughing half off of it’s neck with gore and splintered bits of bones where Bull had used his handle of his axe to bludgeon the man off of his horse, before cutting brutally and efficiently through his throat. The result left the gory mess that remained of his face lolling as if on a hinge, it’s head staring sightlessly with one bloody eye as it grasped fingers around one of it’s former comrades, the man’s understandable screaming cutting off into gurgles.

Sera was swearing up a storm, her face black and swollen where someone had backhanded her with a gauntlet, and twisted in fear. She wasn’t being harried in the least, but still broke free of her captors as they were overrun with the dead. She crouched low and made it to Bull’s side, leaning against him and beginning to murmur as she rummaged for something to cut the bonds trapping her arms behind her.

 

Lavellan kneed her own guard in the groin, bringing him down to her slight level, and proceeding to knock him the rest of the way down with a hooked leg and a push of her shoulder that brought her on top of him.

The ensuing struggle had her grimacing in satisfaction as she strangled the man to death between her legs, ankles crossed, and hands uselessly bound as Sera’s. The soldier turned purple as his companions were ripped into as easily as soft meat, nothing but the noiseless gasps and creaking of bones from the dead, and the fearful screams from the living as they sought to scramble away from their suddenly murderous companions. Lavellan was unheeding of the carnage, besides a satisfied grin in Dorian’s direction that showed perhaps far too many teeth.

He’s beginning to wonder why his bloodthirsty friend would have found his particular set of talents distasteful.

 

Bull was silent as the grave, even his breaths quieted as Sera jostled him in her quest for a loose sharp edge, and it drove Dorian to dizzying heights of rage. He scraped the last dredges of his soul as Almadaris turned back to him with a faintly disturbed expression, staff bright as a sun and hot enough to curl his hair from where Dorian stood as he made the same calculation of life that his opponent had.

 

There were far more dead here than living, and Dorian had just taken control of _all_ of them.

 

The purple haze grew around Dorian’s hand as Almadaris cast one last desperate spell towards him, a fire that was almost white hot, and even as Dorian narrowed his eyes in concentration and used his left hand to divert most of it, he threw the right holding his staff forward, a miasma like a heat shimmer striking Almadaris like a physical blow, and knocking the man back almost six feet.

He payed for his confidence in a searing pain, as the man’s spell ate it’s way through his meagre barrier deflection, and seared his fingers with a smell of cooking meat that turned Dorians stomach even as he grit his teeth around the whimper of pain. But it paid off, as his grit teeth spread in a smirk, and a faint, fearful noise was heard from where Almadaris lay in the snow.

The last sounds of soldiers being dispatched by the dead was simply scuffles, sound that would have been terrifying in the dark of a room with their noiseless horror, but were simply nausea inducing in the light of day as the dead smothered his enemies in sheer weight, and leaden determination driven by his own ferocity and simmering determination.

His mana scraped rock bottom, painfully raw in the channels where he drew from the fade, the tugging of that many bodies causing his limbs to tremble with exhaustion and the edges of his vision blacken with wavering dots.

 

And then the magister started screaming, and he kept smiling.

 

######

 

Sera didn’t speak to him, cutting her bonds, and throwing him a look that was a confusing mixture of fear and disgust, spitting onto the now recumbent corpse of her captor, before capering off to find her hart that had fled with the violence.

Lavellan had helped Dorian stagger to his feet, drawing him to Bull’s side and dropping him there unceremoniously. He waved her off, after accepting a lyrium potion.

“Next time you hold back on me like that,” She said sweetly, patting his shoulder, and drawing him into a grateful hug. “I’m going to cut your balls off and set them in my throne.”

“Duly noted. now go find that darling Scout Harrington and have her send us someone to bring us back to Skyhold.” He said, with the smallest uncomfortable shudder, and returned smile. “I’m afraid if I try to stand I’ll simply embarrass myself.”

“You’re always embarrassing yourself.” She said, rummaging, and retrieving her bow from a soldier with an irritated kick at the dead mans side. He leaked unattractively. “But. Maybe not so much today.”

 

“Good to know.” He watched her go after Sera, the slightest limp in her gait, before turning his attention to Bull, who was blearily turning to lok at him with a dopy smile. Dorian supposed the spreading amount of blood, as well as the paralyzing glyphs still causing minute twitches in the mercenaries large body had something to do with it.

“Hey.” He said, as Dorian drained the mana potion with a grimace, and began turning the last of his magic toward stopping the bleeding. Healing was far, _far_ from his forte. As far from his expertise as possible, if he was being honest. But he could do enough to stop the bleeding and keep him alive before help arrived, and that was all he was concerned about.

“Save it Bull.” He murmured, taking a moment to stroke the unaries forehead. He left a streak of soot and gore that made him frown, but Bull reached up to pin his hand in place, turning his head to place a cold, dry kiss to the inside of his brunt wrist.

“You were amazing.”

 

“I’m always amazing.” He retorted, but he smiled as he said it, brushing Bull off, and continuing his healing.

 

He allowed the hand that rested on his thigh to remain there, and it remained a warm point of contact until the Inquisitor came to get them.

**Author's Note:**

> #
> 
> For this prompt!
> 
> http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15866.html?thread=59890682#t59890682
> 
> I've been trolling the kinkmeme for inspiration when I'm stuck for ideas for nanowrimo, and necromancer!Dorian is always a good one. I'm trying to power through every day, so this is unbetad and has only like, two quick readthroughs for mistakes!
> 
> WORDS-
> 
> fasta canus- fucking dog
> 
> avanna- greeting
> 
> provocatio- challenge
> 
> And lastly, Almadaris is an actual magister who you fuck over for a war table mission. Who Dorian specifically fucks over.


End file.
